When Stars Fall by Wendy Million

 

Chapter One

Wyatt

Ten Years Ago

As soon as the Rolls-Royce pulls into the driveway, I’m out the door of the rambling brick bungalow we share in Bel Air. I haven’t seen her in weeks—since I was on location in Shanghai, and she flew home to visit her family.

Before Kyle can get to her door, I take Ellie’s hand to draw her out of the back seat. “How’d your visit go?” I cradle her cheeks in my hands, scanning every peak and valley of her face. Something is off. She’s hollowed out.

“Fine. Just tired.” A weak smile rises, and she closes her eyes briefly.

“Grab her bags, will you, Kyle?” I sweep her up in my arms and carry her through the foyer into the huge open-concept living space. She could walk inside herself, but after so long without her, I’ll seize any excuse to hold her close.

“Sure thing, sir,” Kyle says.

“Have you eaten? I can make you something.” She’s lost weight, and she doesn’t have a pound to spare. “Did some tabloid say something shitty about you again?”

“No, nothing like that.”

When we get to the couch, I set her down. “Talk to me.” I sit beside her and then shift to get a better vantage point. “Do you want a Perc to take the edge off?”

“I don’t want anything.” She twists her hands in her lap, a sure sign she’s nervous. If she starts playing with her hair, there’s definitely something wrong.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

She doesn’t say anything for a beat. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About us. Our relationship. About where we’re headed.”

There’s a ring sitting in my underwear drawer. I dragged Isaac with me to choose one a week before he died. I haven’t been able to face the diamond since, but I understand what I want.

She leaves the couch and goes over to where Kyle dropped her bags. From a side pocket, she takes out some pamphlets.

Maybe she discovered the ring and spent the week looking at wedding venues in Bermuda. She wouldn’t want the chaos an LA wedding would bring. Wherever she wants to get married is fine by me. There’s no need for her to be nervous. Not like I’ll be mad about any of it.

“What’s this?” I try to stifle my amusement.

She tries to pass me the pamphlets and flyers. My brain stalls, and it takes a moment for me to process the bold headlines claiming effective treatment for addictions. A chill streaks across my body. This has nothing to do with weddings and nothing to do with our future. I remove the bottle from my pocket and shake out a Vicodin, then throw it back. I’m not addressing what’s written in these things. She’s going to have to say it. I set the bottle on the coffee table between us.

After a deep breath, she says, “I think—I think if we want to have a future together, we should be doing that clean and sober.”

“This is bullshit.” I grab the pamphlets and toss them onto the table and they scatter everywhere. Some of them fall to the floor at her feet. My chest is tight with disbelief. She knows better than anyone what she’s asking.

She tucks her hair behind her ears. Shit, her hair. She doesn’t say anything.

An uncontrollable rage rises in me. “What the hell happened to you on that damned island? We’ve been together for three, almost four, years and you’ve never asked me to quit. You’ve never said my using was a problem. In fact, Ellie, you do it with me.”

“I haven’t touched anything since Isaac died.”

“You’re a liar. We’ve gone out lots of times.” Even as I say those words, I can’t remember the last time she accepted a pill or took a drink or did a line of coke. My younger sister, Anna, started calling Ellie a No-Fun Nellie. “Nah, I don’t believe you. I would’ve noticed.” She must be lying, otherwise my intake has been much higher than I realized.

She points at a pamphlet on the table. “My mother says this one is very good. The best.”

“You think I don’t know about rehab programs?” I scoff. “You think I don’t have friends who’ve tried it? Rehab doesn’t work. It won’t work. I’m not going.”

“We’re getting older. Maybe we should be considering a family.” She rubs her face. “Kids, possibly, someday . . . maybe.”

She can’t even make eye contact when she says that. She’s not serious. Wherever these notions are coming from, she needs to send them packing back to Bermuda. A week ago, she and I were just fine, and now she’s returned with a truckload of bullshit ideas.

“No, Ellie. No. You’re twenty-four, not forty-four. Don’t play the kids card. What the fuck do kids have to do with anything?”

She stares at me, indecision on her face, and then her expression cements into a stubborn mask. “You’re out of control.”

I take the pills off the table and shove an oxy in my mouth, this time to dull the memory of this conversation, which will hang over us like a cloud. Tomorrow, I won’t want to remember she even suggested this. “The only person who gets to decide that is me.”

“I want you to quit.” She crosses her arms. “Deal with Isaac’s death, deal with your parents being terrible. Whatever underlying issues make you want to do this, be like this.”

“You knew who I was when you went home with me that first night. I’ve never lied to you,” I say with a harsh half laugh.

“You haven’t, but I’m asking you to be better. To want more for yourself—for us.”

“Now that you’ve fucked your way into better jobs and higher paychecks, you think you can dictate some terms?” I shove the coffee table out of the way, and the metal legs shriek against the stone floor. “Come on, Ellie. Where would you be without me? Still pretty far down the call list.” The second pill was a mistake. Words are tumbling out of my mouth and I can’t stop them. Her tears fall faster than she can brush them away. “Sure, Ellie. Sure. Bust out the tears. They won’t work. I’m not going to rehab; I’m not quitting any of it. We were fine until you went home to Bermuda. Who’s been pumping you full of this shit? Your mom? Your sister, Nikki? One of your old high school buddies who saw something on TMZ?”

“I want you to go to rehab.” Her voice is thick, garbled.

“You’re the only one.” I throw out my arms. It’s incomprehensible that she’d ask this of me.

“I’m not.” She shakes her head. “I’m not the only one.”

“Your family doesn’t count.” Her mother has never liked me. Maybe her sister doesn’t like me now either. Someone has been feeding her these lines. My Ellie is full of softness and understanding. She doesn’t give ultimatums.

“Producers, directors, people who know you have been asking me to do something. To intervene. You’re not coping.”

A surge of anger courses through me, but not at her—at the people who put her in this position. “They have no idea what they’re talking about.”

“You’ll lose jobs. People won’t want to work with you anymore.”

“Bullshit. I make people money. I’ve made you a lot of money over the last four years. Being tied to me is the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“It could be,” she says. “If you’ll get help. You could be the best thing to ever happen to me.”

“I don’t need help, Ellie. I’m fine. We’re fine. Screw the rest of them who don’t understand.”

“I’m one of those people. Me. I don’t understand anymore either. You need help. I can’t—I’m not capable of giving you the help you need.”

My mind is muddled. She doesn’t ask me to do impossible things. She’d never ask me to choose. We had a pact. “Who put you up to this?”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “No one. It’s coming from my concern for you. I love you.”

“I was clear from the start. If there’s a choice, the choice is easy.” If she loved me, she wouldn’t be asking me to do this.

“Still? After we’ve been together almost four years?” Her voice catches on a sob.

My resolve wavers. I always let her win. She’s not winning this one. Once she cools down, she’ll realize I’m right. There’s nothing wrong with us. “I told you never to ask.”

She snatches a pamphlet off the floor, thrusting it at me again. “Try one of them. Any of them. Just go. Even for a little while. Doesn’t matter which one. If you won’t get help, I can’t stay. I won’t watch you spiral.” Her rambling pleas are almost incoherent through her tears.

“There are plenty of others who will.” I grab the pill bottle off the coffee table. “I’m going out. You have two choices. You can stay and accept that this is who I am, or be moved out by the morning. I’m not going to rehab, and we’re never having this conversation again.”

“Wyatt!” My name is a frantic call as she chases after me to the front entrance. “Wyatt. Stay. Please. We need to talk about this.”

“We’re done talking. If my not being clean and sober is suddenly a deal breaker for you, then we’re broken. I’m serious. Forget about rehab or move out.”

“You don’t mean that.” Her face is already puffy from crying. She’s crying so hard I barely understand her words.

“I do. I really do.” Before I can reconsider, I slam the door behind me.

She won’t leave. Even if she wanted to, packing up and being gone in the next twenty-four hours is impossible. Our lives are too intertwined. Tomorrow, when I come back, we’ll pretend like this conversation never happened. Maybe we’ll even laugh about it. Ellie loves me. I know she does.

When I climb into the back of the car, my pills press against my leg through my pocket. I take out the bottle, pop off the lid, and stare into the container. Shaking out an Adderall, I throw it into my mouth. A little something to take the edge off, make me completely forget this conversation so I’m not so pissed at her tomorrow.

“Where to, sir?” Kyle asks from the front.

“Drive around for a while and then to a hotel. Doesn’t matter which one.”

Kyle glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Everything okay, sir?”

“It’ll be fine.” I glance out the window as we drive onto the street. “Ellie needs a little space.”